


You Followed Me Home

by Polyphany



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyphany/pseuds/Polyphany
Summary: **DISCLAIMER: This fic is set in an alternate universe where Civil War, Infinity War, and Endgame aren't a thing. Also, Peter is 21.**Peter runs in to Deadpool outside his apartment one night and it's all downhill from there.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 34





	You Followed Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> Hope y'all read the disclaimer on this. My name is Ari, and this is my very first MCU fic. It is beta'd by Reign, u/jkhyun on Reddit. Enjoy!

It’s almost 3 in the morning when Peter involuntarily vaults off his bed. It’s not the first time his spider-senses have given him a rude awakening. He’s only half-awake as he looks frantically around his darkened bedroom, every nerve ending lighting up and screaming DANGER! As the fog lifts from his brain, it becomes clear that there is no sign of any danger in his room. He stumbles out of the room and into the rest of the apartment, which is equally as quiet and undisturbed.  
  
“Nightmare,” Peter mumbles to himself. “It was just a nightmare.” He can’t even remember what he had been dreaming about. Dazed, still buzzing with adrenaline, he goes back into his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind him. He stretches his arms up and out, hoping to alleviate the tension, before collapsing back into bed.  
  
A few more seconds later, it happens again.  
  
“Damn it!” Peter hisses, having jolted upright in the bed. He ungracefully tumbles out of bed again, getting caught in the blankets on his way out, and ducks into his closet. He finds his suit and hastily pulls it on. He can hear some sort of scuffle out in the alley. The sound is distorted and echoing in the narrow gap between buildings. In his urgency, Peter drops his left web-shooter three times before he successfully equips it, crossing the tiny room in one step and yanking the window open.  
  
Peter jumps out and onto the next building, just a couple of feet across his window. He shoots out a web to pull his window shut again -- can’t be too careful.  
  
“Three combatants,” Karen is saying calmly in his ear, already dissecting the situation. Peter finds them and zeros in.  
  
“Got ‘em,” Peter mutters. He crawls along the wall, making sure to stay in the shadows as he makes out the three silhouettes grappling each other. Peter can discern that one person is trying to fight off the other two. Suddenly there’s a flash of metal and a scream… Was that a sword? The injured assailant collapses to the ground.  
  
“Tell me who sent you!” one of the silhouettes demands. The two figures still standing scuffle again briefly, and Peter’s spider-senses tingle down his spine the second before a gunshot rings out. Another body hits the pavement, this time sickeningly quiet. “Don’t you just hate it when someone interrupts you like that? So rude.”  
  
Peter can feel his blood go cold. He acts without thinking, even as Karen tells him to hold back. Before he knows it he’s launching himself towards the shooter dressed in red and black, who’s leveling his gun again. Peter lands hard between the killer’s shoulder blades, sending him face first into the pavement with a horrible crack. He nimbly springboards off of the man and flips onto his feet by the person writhing on the ground. His stomach turns when he notices their hand -- or rather, what was left of it.  
  
“Are you ok?” he asks, feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him. “I’m gonna get you to a hospital --” As he tries to be reassuring, the man, still making sounds of distress, reaches into his jacket and pulls out another gun, aiming it at Peter. And yet again, Peter gets that electric, hair-raising jolt from his finger tips to his toes before another gunshot explodes too close to his head.  
  
As if in slow motion, Peter stumbles backwards, the man falls back against the pavement, and the stranger in the red and black suit lowers his gun.  
  
“What an entrance, Spidey!” the stranger exclaims, holstering the gun and turning to Peter with a grin that can be seen from underneath his red and black mask. “Oh man, I’m feeling all tingly -- nice to finally meet you. Huge fan. HUGE.”  
  
“Peter, don’t --” Karen’s warning is inaudible over the ringing in Peter’s ears as he reels back and decks the man in the face.  
  
“What the fuck is happening?” Peter shouts, to Karen, to the prone bodies on the ground, to no one in particular. He feels like he’s going to be sick. The guy in the suit seems dazed, but not unconscious on the ground.  
  
“That’s Wade Wilson,” Karen says in Peter’s ear. “Otherwise known as Deadpool. Careful --” Peter steps back and retracts the hand he had extended to the injured man. He quickly notices the many, many weapons strapped to Deadpool. “He’s dangerous.”  
  
“Yeah,” Peter mutters. “I’m getting that.”  
  
“Do not under any circumstances attempt to restrain or fight him. He’s highly unpredictable and --”  
  
“I gotta say,” Deadpool pipes up, gingerly sitting up on the pavement, “it’s really an honour to get punched in the mouth by the Spider-Man. If I get a boner, please take it as the highest compliment.”  
  
“Gross,” Peter scoffs.  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Deadpool continues cheerily. “I’m Deadpool. It’s nice to meet you, sweet cheeks.” Every cell in Peter’s body feels like it recoils at the pet name. Deadpool pushes himself up to stand. He seems taller than Peter, but there’s about 5 metres between them, so it’s hard to tell. “You gonna punch me again?”  
  
“Depends,” Peter says, “but I hope so. What the heck, dude? You just… murdered two people! On the street!”  
  
“Oh you sweet, sweet, innocent, precious, sweet child,” Deadpool says as he slowly walks closer to Peter. “That’s like, my whole thing. Killing people for money. I’m actually surprised you don’t know me by now, considering how much of a gossip Tony is. These guys were baddies anyways,” Deadpool kicks one of the dead men’s legs as he comes ever closer to Peter, “so really, I’m doing you a favour if you think about it. Hey! Since you’re already up at this beautiful hour, how about we go get some all-night street food? Bond over some chimichangas? Hey --”  
  
As Deadpool was rattling off his insane nonsense, Peter had wordlessly extended his arm and quickly yanked himself up off the street to the face of his apartment building.  
  
“That’s so fuckin’ cool,” Deadpool says enthusiastically, pumping both fists in the air. “Do a flip.”  
  
“Well it was fun meeting you, Deadpool,” Peter calls back, already scurrying up to the roof, “I’m calling the cops on account of the… murdered guys, so you might want to, you know…”  
  
“Leaving so soon?” Peter couldn’t tell if the tone in Deadpool’s voice was dismayed or condescending. “But we were just getting to know each other!”  
  
“Yeah, I’d rather that we didn’t!” Peter yells over his shoulder as he shoots out a web and swings away -- or at least somewhere that Deadpool wasn’t. He ungracefully stumbles on to the roof of the neighbouring apartment, not wanting to go too far with that guy skulking around. He ducks behind an air conditioning unit and presses his back to its cold surface.  
  
“Authorities are on their way,” Karen says quietly in Peter’s ear. “Why don’t you go back to your apartment?”  
  
“Because,” Peter leans just a little bit to see that Deadpool is still standing in the quiet, dark street, and Peter could swear that the man could still see him in the shadows on the rooftop. “I’m not leading that psycho to where I live. And he’s just… standing there. Is that not creepy and unsettling? Because I’m thoroughly creeped out. And unsettled.”  
  
“You haven’t been getting enough sleep lately,” Karen remarks unhelpfully.  
  
“I know,” Peter sighs, “what does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“Paranoia, irritability, increased impulsivity --”  
  
“That dude just murdered two people in the middle of the street!” Peter hisses. He doesn’t understand why this is so casual all of a sudden. Maybe Iron Man and Captain America are used to such violence and brutality, but Peter is still feeling like he wants to throw up. “And he’s still standing there. Do you think he can see me?”  
  
“Unlikely,” Karen says. Peter sneaks another glance. Deadpool’s still standing, motionless, face turned directly to him.  
  
“So weird,” Peter grumbles. Back still against the AC unit, he sits down heavily on the rooftop. “What’s his deal? He seems… unstable.”  
  
“He’s a mutant,” Karen says. A digital image of the guy in the red and black suit conjures itself in Peter’s vision, as well as a few candid pictures of him alternately skewering and shooting various people. And one blurry picture of him at a hotdog stand stuffing his face with chili cheese dogs. “His primary ability is an advanced healing factor. Other abilities include an extensive knowledge of martial arts in addition to superhuman endurance, agility, and marksmanship. He mainly works as a mercenary and a hitman.”  
  
“I guess you’d have to be nuts to do that kinda stuff,” Peter mutters. His stomach turns violently as he replays what he witnessed. He’d seen people get shot, he’d even seen people die -- he’d been Spider-Man for almost seven years, after all -- but it’s not something he’ll ever get used to seeing. “Do you think that’s what he was doing out here?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Karen replies.  
  
“Must have been,” Peter says. “Man, I moved to this neighbourhood because it was supposed to be quiet. I really don’t need this right before school starts.” The sound of an approaching siren and the bright flash of emergency lights start to bounce off of nearby buildings. Finally. Peter peeks out again from around the AC unit and catches a fleeting glimpse of red and black boots high-tailing it down an alley. “Too much to ask that he would have stuck around for the police to catch him, I guess.”  
  
Taking care to stay safely in the shadows, Peter begins crawling his way over the rooftop. He carefully jumps to the outer wall of his own building and, painstakingly slowly, creeps towards his window.  
  
“Quiet, quiet, quiet,” he whispers as he pries the window open. Thankfully, it slides up without a sound, and Peter ungracefully pulls himself through. He groans as he tumbles out onto his bed. He can hear the police out on the street, their lowered voices and the crackling of their radios.  
  
Peter yanks his mask off and hits the release on his suit. Now that he’s back in his room, on his bed, the exhaustion hits him like a truck. He kicks his suit off and stuffs it along with his mask under his bed. Yawning, he turns over onto his stomach, not bothering with the blankets, and lets his heavy eyelids close.  
  
Sleep doesn’t come as easily as he’d like. And when it does, there’s a man in red and black lurking around the corners in his chaotic dreams. Peter gets the distinct feeling that he needs to tell him something, but the man disappears when Peter goes to look for him, vanishing into maze-like alleys or slipping away into tightly packed crowds. By the end of it, he can almost feel the searing pain of cold metal slicing into him, a pair of blank white eyes staring inches away from him.  
  
Peter wakes up utterly unrested.


End file.
